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had received the urgent letter from the village preacher, one Reverend Pratt, its tone and content had made it stand out from all the other requests for investigations. A woman in his village, it said, had begun to raise suspicions among the Faithful. She cured with unnatural ease, had an allegiance with all manner of creatures. There were hints that she was in possession of strange artifacts and likely demonically possessed objects. Cats and owls were sometimes seen in her presence, even by day - an indication that she worked closely with demon assistants, or familiars.
    Of course, the letter hadn't been worded in exactly that manner; those were his impressions. And he'd interrogated enough witches by that point to know that what appeared innocent to the average person - an unusually loyal pet, an uncomplicated, easy connection with the natural world, even a broom displayed in a place of prominence within the cottage- could be signs of Satan's influence. This woman also, he'd been told, possessed a great and alluring beauty, with flaming red hair and perfect skin. Another trick, he was sure. Witches were vain creature, and the adept ones were skilled at effecting a glamour - a spell that made them appear especially comely to the weak. He doubted that she was the beauty she was renowned to be. A man of his godliness would take one look and see her for the hag she really was.
    But just to be on the safe side, Rev. Fordham had prayed for strength so that when it came time to question Lark Willoughby, the beauty -should it actually exist - would not raise his compassion.
    It was always easier to extract the truth from the ugly ones, the ones whose enchantments had not been strong enough to change their appearance from ordinary or wizened village women into supernatural beauties. Once the bodices were ripped away from their sagging breasts, it was all too easy to find the devil's mark - the telltale third nipple used to suckle their Satanic consort. He wondered if - underneath this Lark Willoughby's clothes - such a mark would exist, and his eyes narrowed as he told himself that if she was as beautiful as Rev. Pratt has claimed, he'd be sure to search every inch of her personally, just to be on the safe side.
    The carriage dipped again and this time the driver did not wait for the rap of the cane before yelling his apologies from above. Rev. Fordham leaned back in his seat, clutching the cane, and stretched his long legs out in front of him. As he brushed a strand of lank black hair away from his pale face, he resumed his thoughts. If the mark did not exist, then that would be the indication of a truly powerful witch. He'd only encountered two before, but both regrettably died before he could get them to admit that their arts and beauty were gifts in return for their allegiance to the devil. The last one, the midwife Mary Winfield, had screamed in such exquisite agony on the rack. Even now, when he closed his eyes, he could hear the sound of that scream, along with his voice calmly offering her relief if she would only confess., as had her sister the day before. But Mary had defied him, thrashing her head and whipping her thick mane of chestnut hair back and forth over her beautiful face. When she'd begun to wheeze, Rev. Fordham had moved closer to her, sure that she was about to break. But when he commanded her to speak he saw that she could not. Her eyes were fixed in a stare and her lips were turning blue. Moments later, the shallow breaths had stopped and she was dead. Her family, already devastated over her sister's confession - for who want a witch in the family? - was distraught over Mary's death, and tearfully claimed that she had suffered breathing problems from the time she was a small child. But Rev. Fordham knew better. He knew that the devil had come and taken her soul just to deny him the joy of a double confession. He'd been disappointed, for he'd planned to beat the girl personally if the rack did not work. But